It was a glorious sight. Everything glowed in the golden light, and a fiery snowstorm seemed to be sweeping over the farm buildings, as the excited people worked, each dash of water producing a cloud of steam over which roared up, as it were, a discharge of fireworks.
For some time no impression whatever appeared to be made, but no one thought of leaving his position; the squire and those nearest to him were black and covered with perspiration, their faces shining in the brilliant light, and the leader was still emptying the buckets of water, when Farmer Tallington ran up to him.
“Let me give you a rest now,” he cried.
“Nay, neighbour, I’ll go on.”
The friendly altercation seemed to be about to result in a struggle for the bucket, when Dick, who had been in one of the back rooms, came running out of the house shouting:—
“The stable—the stable is on fire!”
This caused a rush in the direction of the long low-thatched building on the other side of the house, one of a range about a yard.
There was no false alarm, for the thatch was blazing so furiously, that at a glance the lookers-on saw that the stable and the cart lodge adjoining were doomed.
“Did any one get out the horses?” roared Farmer Tallington.
There was no answer, and the farmer rushed on up to the burning building through tiny patches of fire where the dry mouldering straw was set alight by the falling flakes.